The Palm Reader's Promise

Margaret sat on her porch, watching the rain create gentle ripples in the birdbath. The water reminded her of that summer in 1957, when she'd first met Eleanor at the county fair. A scruffy orange cat had been weaving through their ankles as they stood before the fortune teller's tent, both of them girls with wild dreams and freshly permed hair.

"Your palm says you'll live a long life filled with love," the fortune teller had told Eleanor, pressing her thumb into Eleanor's hand. "But you'll have to fight for it."

Sixty-seven years later, Margaret traced her own palm lines—now deeply etched like riverbeds—and smiled. Eleanor had fought, all right. Fought for her marriage when others said she was too young. Fought to open that little bookstore on Main Street when bankers laughed. Fought cancer twice and won both rounds.

Last week, they'd sat together in Eleanor's hospital room, holding hands like they used to do during sleepovers, half a century of friendship suspended between them. Eleanor's white hair had spread like soft clouds across her pillow.

"Remember that cat?" Eleanor had whispered, her eyes bright with mischief even then. "The one who led us to that fortune teller?"

"The fortune teller who charged us two weeks' allowance?" Margaret had laughed, squeezing her friend's hand. "I remember."

"She was right, though." Eleanor's voice had grown faint. "About the love part."

Now the rain stopped, and Margaret watched a droplet slide down her wrist, following the lifeline the fortune teller had examined all those years ago. She thought about how Eleanor's grandchildren would gather around her tomorrow, hearing stories about the grandmother who'd fought for everything good in her life.

A neighbor's cat—another orange one, as if the universe had a sense of humor—peered around the porch railing. Margaret patted the empty rocking chair beside her.

"Come on up, old friend," she said softly. "Got plenty of stories to share."